


the constant traveller,  lamenting sorrowfully

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [22]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Targaryen is Prince of Dragonstone, Minor Character Death, R Plus L Equals J, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb Stark is a Gift, Theon Greyjoy is King of the Iron Islands, post time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-31 17:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Robb attends some very solemn, melancholy events on Westeros' various beaches.





	1. Chapter 1

“She’s your sister,” Robb insisted, already sick of the sound of his own voice. 

Theon was no closer to being convinced, than the myriad of other times he’d attempted to reason with him. Sansa had begged Robb to come to Pyke to settle the dispute, but he wasn’t sure the trip wouldn't turn out to be an utterly fruitless endeavour.

 _He won’t listen to me,_ Sansa had written, _another King might combat this stubbornness. Or perhaps only a brother. Please come._

How could he refuse a note such as that, from his sweet sister? 

Robb had taken the first ship available, from the many docked at Sea Dragon Point, constantly ferrying wood and supplies along the coast. He had just started constructing a port there last year. Now that Theon was finally King of the Iron Islands, they needed a better trade route between their two Kingdoms, located on the west coast. 

Sea Dragon Point was the best suited spot for it, due to already being littered with the ruins of small First Men keeps and holdfasts. With the stone foundations already in place, it wasn’t long before the builder’s camp turned from a small settlement into a real town. Once the port was finished, Robb could see it becoming a real city, one to rival White Harbour. Then the North would really be entering an Age of Progress. 

He had grand plans for the expanding the largest keep there, but as yet, no lord to settle it upon. Robb had considered gifting it to one of his baseborn sons when they came of age. But he wasn’t sure how he would manage to do so, without his Southron wife taking offense. Rosa was difficult to placate at the best of times; convinced that whenever Robb rode south, it was to fly into Meera’s arms. Admittedly, sometimes that was the case. 

But they had all somehow managed to survive the Second Long Night. He was fully aware how lucky they were that had been the case. It had settled upon him that he should not waste time avoiding his loved ones, for the sake of propriety and reputation. One couldn’t live a life only for the satisfaction of others. You had to eke out your own happiness, and denying yourself the love and affection of your family was not the manner in which to achieve it.

Robb wasn’t going to forfeit the chance to spend time with his boys when they were children, just because they didn’t live in the same keep. He kept them out of Winterfell, and Rosa should be grateful for that; the gods know his mother would have been.

If not one of his boys could have it, there were always the Redbolts, who could take the new keep. Robb knew them to be loyal bannermen. Fighting beside him bravely in battle, since the war of the False Stags. Though he wasn’t sure what Ramsay would make of running a harbour. Robb had no reservations about Podrick handling it however, and the vassal households that would be associated with the area. Robb spent enough time at the Dreadfort to know Podrick and Aunt Gwyn ran that household together, smooth as a hot blade through butter. 

However, promoting a knightly House, consisting of two men who publicly shared a bed and a name, would no doubt be accompanied by complaints, from other second sons and the like who had no such proclivities. Robb didn’t care one whit who his bannermen shared their beds with, so long as no one was being forced into it. But there were other Houses closer to the keep who would believe themselves just as worthy of the promotion. Namely the Glovers, Forresters, Tallharts, Ryswells and Stouts; all close to the location, and with plenty of young men eligible to be named its Lord. Truly offended men could react in a strange and volatile ways, if their pride was dented. Robb couldn’t conscience bringing the wrath of others down upon the innocent Redbolts, due to his own insistence on promoting them, versus the unwed men of the aforementioned Houses.

There was always Rickon of course. But he was only one-and-ten, and currently Robb’s only heir. If Rosa birthed another daughter, Robb was going to make it official. If only until they had a trueborn son, that he could raise as a Stark. 

Mother had fought him with hissed words and tears, when he had gone to Riverrun scant months ago to collect his brother and take him home to Winterfell. Her nails like claws, digging into his arms, as she alternately cried and snarled. Rickon had been happy to go; he’d clearly missed Robb and the fun they used to have together. 

Robb was sorry for his mother, who did not like to be parted from her young children. But it was high time Rickon was returned to Winterfell, where he belonged. Naturally, Mother disagreed, very strongly. She tried to argue Rickon was Bran’s heir for the nonce, and would need to be trained as a Riverlands lord. Robb had only scoffed at that. Rickon was a Stark; he belonged in the North. And Bran didn't need an heir yet, he could wait until he married little Roslin Tully.

He didn’t like to push the issue, especially as Robb's relationship with his mother was already frayed, but in the end, he had threatened to take Minisa too, to make her relent. His lady mother cast him resentful looks and hurled baseless accusations at him, though Robb had invited her to come home to Winterfell also. She seemed unconvinced of his sincerity, when he spoke of the better relations between himself and Rosa, and his progress rebuilding the North.

It felt like he had only just returned home, before he was forced to leave again. Rosa was bitterly indignant that he agreed to Sansa’s request, despite her being heavily pregnant. The fact of the matter was, Rosa didn’t need him to be present when she gave birth. But the small Ironborn fleet moored off the coast of Pyke, was an imminent threat. What sort of brother would he be, if he didn’t provide assistance in a time of need? 

He took a small force of Stark men, despite Sansa’s insistence that the 'Black krakens' came under the envoy of peace. Those who had sided with Yara during the war of the False Stags, fighting against Northmen and Theon’s forces- their own kinsmen, had been exiled from Westeros’ shores. As per the agreements at the end of the war. Balon had been captured and ‘ransomed’ back, but Theon was King in all but name, and everyone knew it. Dying less than two years after was the most useful thing Balon had done in his life, Robb uncharitably thought.

And now, a further two and a half years on, the disgraced krakens were moored offshore, begging pardon and leave to come home. Theon was right to be angry; the last time he had seen most of them, they had been backing his sister’s claim at the Kingsmoot. Which Theon had won rather decisively, after Sansa had skewered Euron Greyjoy with an arrow through the back, for daring to show his face. She’d even had his body burnt in utter contempt, the most sacrilegious end for an Ironborn. They believed a burnt body could not allow the man's spirit to find its way to the Drowned God’s halls. The Ironborn were all rather fond of Theon and Sansa.

Robb hadn’t seen it for himself, of course. But it was one of Theon’s favourite stories, so he had frequently heard tell of how Sansa had promised to ‘meet him on the beach’. Her greensight allowing her to know Euron was approaching, despite no one else anticipating his arrival. She had positioned herself strategically on the rocks above, and let her arrow fly at the opportune moment.

The surrounding Ironborn had looked around for the threat, readying themselves for a fight, before Sansa hailed them.

Yara had spat out a denouncement of Sansa’s interference, asking by what right she executed a Greyjoy. Sansa replied cooly that she was a Princess of the North, a Princess of the Isles and a Greyjoy herself, about to become their Queen. Euron was a disgrace, and banished under pain of death for his crimes against his brother. Yara had no right to question her authority, especially when Sansa was carrying out her own father’s decree. Then she had invited Euron’s men a home on the Isles, if they backed her husband’s claim. Most of them promptly did so. 

Theon already had Victarion’s support, and Aeron’s drowned men telling the more religious among them he was the Drowned God’s choice. Yara hadn’t stood a chance, and no one else put forth a claim.

Robb was surprised to learn that Yara’s remaining supporters would ever dare to show their faces on Ironborn shores again. They’d been hiding out in the Stepstones, and reaving in the Free Cities, which seemed like a fitting spot for them. But the hankering for home was not confined to Northmen; it seemed they wished more than anything to rejoin their kinsmen, and return to all that was familiar. When Robb learned the circumstances around the return, it made more sense to him.

But Theon was unmoved by their pleas. They were technically traitors to his reign, and he didn’t see why he should afford them a home on the admittedly very wealthy Isles, when they hadn’t supported him. Sansa was of the opinion that former enemies, that could be brought into the fold, would be grateful and good allies. But only if they were not belittled and constantly punished for past errors. Accepting them back in this unique instance, would show clemency and forethought- something the Ironborn were not known for. But it wouldn’t make them look weak, because the men had already suffered a banishment, and been stripped of their holdings and ranks when they left.

Robb reminded Theon of this, but he only pouted, and growled that his father would never have shown such mercy.

“Your father was an absolute arse, Theon,” Robb pointed out, rather unkindly.

Theon huffed, but didn’t argue the point.

“I’m not sure I can do it. Yara- she was really all I had left, after Mother lost her mind. And she never cared one whit for me. She tried to have me killed.”

“I know,” Robb said, “But it was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Theon snorted, before sighing heavily, and casting Robb a beseeching look. Theon seemed to know he would be convinced against his will if Robb continued, but he did so anyway, if only to ensure their safety, against the unwelcome Ironborn casting anchor so close to the shore.

“She's your sister, Theon.” Robb repeated, hoping it might help, to keep reiterating it.

“Barely,” Theon countered, dismissively. “She treated me like an outsider, all my life. But at least she didn't beat me like Rodrick and Maron. They were never my family. Not like you, or Jon, or Sansa- well. Maybe not quite like Sansa. I'm not the one who turned out to be a secret Targaryen, in this family.”

Robb rolled his eyes briefly, before he continued his merciless campaign; “Do it for your mother then. She’s regained rather a lot of her mind. Allow her this, Theon.”

Theon grumbled churlishly, but Robb could see that he had persuaded him, even if his big brother was not yet ready to admit it. At length, Theon threw up his hands and let out a resentful;

“Seven fucking Hells,”

before kicking at a chair and stomping out of the room.

Robb grinned to himself, proud to be of service to his sister, who had provided so much help to him over the years.

*

They gathered on the beach an hour before dusk. Yara’s bedraggled followers bent the knee to Theon, who looked them over with a critical eye. Probably calculating how best to separate them, between the Isles and ships in his fleet, to prevent any kind of organised rebellious band of opposition.

But there would be time for all of that later.

Yara lay in a small rowing boat, which Theon alone pushed out into the surf, keeping careful hold of it as he stood beside her, knee-deep in the water. The small, strategically placed holes in the boat’s hull began to take on water, soaking the heavy fabric beneath her, weighing it down. 

“Farewell, Yara.” said Theon softly. “I think you hated me at the end; perhaps the feeling was mutual. But you were my only sister. You taught me how to catch crabs, and shuck oysters, and the best hiding spots on Pyke. I did love you, despite it all.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to her cold, pale brow.

Alannys splashed out into the water then, sobbing the way only a grieving mother could, as she stroked her hands over Yara’s dead body. Robb felt a twinge of guilt then, reminded of his own mother, begging to keep Rickon close. It wasn't the same thing, he insisted to himself. Mother refused to come North, acting as though Robb was stealing her son away, as Father had with Theon. But she was always welcome in Winterfell, it was her own stubborn pride stopping her from relenting. 

Still, Robb felt distinctly uncomfortable as Alannys wept. Theon eventually gathered her close as the sun began to set, the two of them remaining in the water until the little boat had been carried far offshore, and battered by the rolling waves, leaving only a scattering of bubbles as it was swallowed by the surf.


	2. Chapter 2

He did not wish to witness this. The mood was sombre as a barrow-ground, when the Ironborn gathered on the shore of Dragonstone. The men tense and uncomfortable, the women kept from the sacrilegious scene. Theon had once explained how the Ironborn had laws regarding death and fire; that they felt as strongly about it, as most Westerosi considered kinslaying or guest right. To burn a man to death, or even just his corpse, meant condemning his spirit to never greet their watery god below the sea. A fate reserved for the worst kind of criminal. Sansa had gotten away with it once, because Euron Greyjoy had been a monstrocity of a man. Only banished because Balon and Victarion could not order his death, for they considered that kinslaying.

Robb did not think Sansa's subjects would be so lenient and understanding now. There were many that felt Theon's death from this ailment was inevitable; natural and correct, though regrettable. With Uri or Jon ready to step into power (pending the results of the Kingsmoot), they thought going to such extremes to preserve one life was excessive. In most cases, Robb might have agreed with them, had it been any man save for his brother. For if the fate of any of his brothers or sons hung in the balance, Robb knew the rules would not apply, despite how biased and unjust it was. For them, Robb would risk all. 

Aemon had not wanted to perform the ritual. He had sworn to his father and Robb both that he would deny Sansa's request to descend into the black depths of ritualistic blood magic. There were other techniques Aemon could try, to restore Theon to health, first. But somehow, Sansa had persuaded him. His sister was not above extortion, and Robb had no doubt whatever she had used to force Aemon's hand, was powerful enough to stop the boy from reneging on the agreement, now that he had made it. The strongest likelihood of the ritual succeeding came from multiple deaths. This was approved of by the bloodthirsty Ironborn who wanted to save their King, and were happy to behead anyone to do it, while Aemon chanted and so on. The objection came from the terrible manner of execution; for the sacrifice was no use if it was not blessed by R'hllor. And the Lord of Light demanded the cleansing purification of fire.

Robb knew Sansa's sons disagreed with her actions, so much that she had threatened them with disinheritance, if they continued to protest, and death if they took steps to prevent her. When that did not work, for the boys were as obstinate as their mother, Sansa made a more direct threat. Earlier that very afternoon, as they were about to leave the castle walls, Uri tried one last time to rationalise with his mother.

Sansa did not let him get out many words, before she calmly used her knee to fell him, by applying it to a man's most weak spot. The boy reeled, sagging to his knees with his hands clutching at his groin. Meanwhile, Sansa had already whipped out a glittering, ornamental dagger from beneath the folds of her dress. Then she held it beneath his throat before he could blink, drawing a single bead of ruby blood with the razor-sharp tip.

"Your father bought this dagger for me," she hissed, "When I was far younger than you are now. My love for him is at least that old, and still just as sharp. I will slit your throat with it, before I let you prevent me from saving him."

Sansa ignored her daughter's aborted charge forward. Thea was stymied by Robb. He swiftly threw out his hand to catch Thea by the elbow; recognising that interference when Sansa's nerves were this on edge, could result in a horrific accident. His niece whimpered in fear. But Robb barely heard it, over the sound of his sister's grief rapidly descending into madness. Sansa's eyes were fervid with passion, as she serenely threatened the life of her own child. He could only assume she was too deep into her despair to truly understand what she was doing.

Despite the danger, Uri continued his campaign.

"Mother, this is profane. I cannot allow you to do this." Uri wheezed, winded and hurting.

Sansa tilted her head, her face scrunching up into a look of confused disgust, before cold fury took its place.

"Allow me?" she hissed, taking a step back, still pointing the sharp tip of the dagger close to her son's face. "I am your Queen, and you are my subject. You do as I command, until I see fit to elevate you. If I ever do. One word more, and I shall cast doubt upon your legitimacy. And all would call you Urrigon Pyke, and you would never be King while your brothers lived."

Urrigon blanched, his face paling at the threat of bastardy more than the weapon held at his throat. Perhaps he knew that Sansa could never slay her own child, despite her demeanour; but a smear on his lineage would never disappear. Robb felt his stomach grow icy facing the proof of his sister's capacity for ruthlessness. It should no longer surprise him, and yet it still did.

Sansa's next words were low and quiet, with the kind of gravitas that came from true intention.

"I brought you into this world." she whispered coldly, "Grew and fed you inside of me. I held you, bloody and squalling in my arms, and swore nothing would ever take you from me. Do you think that promise would be broken, if it was I who took back the life and name I gave you?"

She tilted her head in a kind of parody of deep reflection, before calmly tucking her dagger back beneath the rippling folds of her skirts.; leading the way to the shoreline with nary a word more. No, Sansa was not a woman to be trifled with.

Her power was reflected in the efficient manner in which the Iron men now lashed the unlucky prisoners to their stakes with utilitarian movements, none of them relishing the ugly task. But they worked without complaint, despite their obvious lack of enthusiasm for their orders. They knew their Queen would not tolerate dissent. At least the prisoners in question were those already condemned to death for heinous crimes.

 _They will call her a Mad Queen,_ Robb thought sadly, as the poor buggers began to scream and writhe, when the flames tickled at their feet. Sansa tossed the flaming torches into each bundle of sticks at their feet herself, wanting no man to have the responsibility, taking the blood of her prisoners onto her own hands alone. Despite her outward calm, Robb wondered if Sansa's sanity was truly intact, or if her pale face concealed hidden terrors too brutal to give name.

There was no doubt in his mind that if this gruesome remedy failed, Sansa would be lost to them all for a time. Robb only prayed that she did not lose herself completely if the scheme failed; and live out the remainder of her days alone and infirm, as Alannys Greyjoy had. 

 _Let Alannys be the last Queen muttering to herself while encased in one of Pyke's crumbling towers,_ Robb prayed. _Let Theon live._

He did not know if the gods would hear him (despite the baby weirwood planted on a grassy outcrop above them), over the howls of soon to be dead wretches. Sansa had added moss to the kindling, so they would die quicker from inhaling the thick smoke. Still, the show of mercy would doubtfully make any difference to Theon's severe reaction, should he wake and discover the lengths to which his wife had gone to preserve his life.

Yet Robb could not judge Sansa too harshly, for his sister had done nothing that he would not have undertaken himself, were it his choice to make. He too would take whatever steps he found available, no matter how unsavoury, for Theon.

That was why Robb forced himself to watch the sacrifices of the criminals wordlessly, as the fire consumed their flesh with the awful stench of burning meat. Knowing that he at least owed them the dignity of not turning his face from their demise, when he desired it as strongly as Sansa; provided it would bring Theon back.


End file.
